


the way you smile and everything you do is reeling me in

by asoidfgold



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer
Genre: Luke Hemmings - Freeform, M/M, Michael Clifford - Freeform, Unrequited Love, but we know is requited, you just have to look for it a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asoidfgold/pseuds/asoidfgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He also thought, in the back of his mind, that Michael looked a bit like a girl. He had long dark eyelashes. He had puffy, pink lips as if he was wearing lipstick. Michael was soft. The smells of Chapstick and lotion (and admittedly, papadums) clung to him like flypaper. Luke remembered a time, the year before, when Michael had decided to experiment with eyeliner. He’d disappeared into the makeup room one day with Lou Teasdale, and emerged with a trace of black smudged around his eyes. That had been interesting day for Luke, realizing that Michael looked good in that sort of thing. But Michael wasn’t short, he wasn’t very curvy, and more than anything, his energy screamed boy. Michael was a boy in all the ways that really mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way you smile and everything you do is reeling me in

**Author's Note:**

> So I really, really shouldn't have written this. Honestly, I have so much work to do and writing for other classes, but I did anyways so here it is. There will probably never be a sequel. Ever. (I mean I say that, but look what happened the first time). Luke's probably more self-aware than I've noticed in other peoples' characterizations of him, which is interesting. He's just so, ugh. 
> 
> Also, brief discussion of gender expression in the context of slight internalized homophobia. Like super super minor, but I honestly can't remember what I wrote, so I thought I'd mention that just in case. 
> 
> Uhhh, yeah, point out any grammar mistakes if you find them.

If he was being honest, Luke had always known that being friends Michael was going to be much more trouble than it was worth. He’d known it from the very first time he laid eyes on him, soft, rumpled momma’s boy that he was, swiping handfuls of popcorn and sweets from the buffet table at Year 7 orientation day, sloping back to share them with a boy that Luke would also come to know quite well. That was Calum. Calum was cool, small, and powerful. Luke was sure he wanted to be friends with him, too, but something about Michael—the way he faded out at the edges, class joker and class joke, wore shades of pubescent confidence in his stance and in his dress—was intoxicating to him. It should have been easy after that. But it was Michael, so it wasn’t.

 

Michael, as it turned out, was complex in ways Luke could never have imagined. In those days, he was angry about a lot of things. At least, that’s what Luke had gathered from the few conversations they’d had reflecting on those early days. All of the boys had told each other things they’d never told anybody else. It was simply understood. Those secrets would never leave the room, be it granny flat, garage, hotel suite. But despite Michael, Ashton, and Calum being the best friends he’d ever had, Luke knew that some things were impossible to articulate. Things that, if he or one the others was to say, would surely hang in the air, bare and blushing, clipped too soon from the heart that feeds. Luke could only guess at the troubles in Ashton’s youth—and he was old now!—as Ashton had never really talked about it much. Just enough for Luke to chalk it up to some resentment towards his absent father, some feeling of inadequacy. Calum, for his part, was a pretty easy-going guy, but Luke knew that giving up football had taken a greater toll on him than he’d like to admit. And still, there was Michael.

 

The water shut off in the other room. Luke heard Michael exiting the shower, grumbling to himself. Then:

 

“Shit! Motherfucking balls!” Michael swore.

 

“What?” Luke yelled back.

 

Michael’s head popped out from around the door. He was grinning.

 

“You didn’t even sound worried! What if I’d hurt myself seriously, like?” Michael laughed, disappearing back into the backroom.

 

“Yeah, but you didn’t. And you’re such a drama queen, it’d probably be like nothing anyways.”

 

Michael’s dripping wet hand reappeared to flip him the bird. “But what if,” he continued, “What if I was really messed up. And was like, bleeding all over the place. Would you come and save me, Luke, would you?”

 

Luke scoffed, feeling this sides of his mouth turn up in an almost smile. “You’re so dramatic, Michael. You’re such a drama queen.”

 

“Your mum’s drama queen. Look, Luke, I’m blee-eding!” Michael bustled into the bedroom, one of the hotel’s tiny towels wrapped around his torso and the other hung loosely around his shoulders. He had his neck extended to show Luke the tiny cut near his jaw.

 

Luke frowned, nodding.

 

“I got it shaving this morning. We left early so I didn’t get to complain about it,” Michael continued. He was grinning at Luke.

 

Luke rolled his eyes. “You’re so annoying, Michael.”

 

Michael moved over to the dresser, transferring his slim grasp on his modesty to one hand and rifling through it for something to wear. Luke could just see a flash of skin between the two towels, still blindingly white despite the hotel room being such a benign shade of beige (“Luke, this is so _not_ punk rock. You should tell management to book us somewhere punk-er next time.”). The skin glistened in the light of the lamp perched on the bedside table. Luke could see the trickle of water down his back, the way it hesitated in the small dips at the bottom of his spine before moving down into the swaths of fabric.

 

And then, all of a sudden, Luke realized he felt sick, realized he’d been feeling it all day (all the time?). For a while now, certainly. He didn’t know how he could possibly have missed it, the snare in his chest. He could feel it snug inside him, shifting uncomfortably every time he breathed in. Luke had never been an anxious guy, always preferring to feel things out as he went along. No matter how long it took him, he would get there eventually. Now he thinks, he _thinks_ , he must understand what Michael felt like in the early days, what he feels when he says “today is not a good day for being awake” or, more often, “shut up, Luke.” Although “shut up, Luke” could express, indeed, had expressed a variety of sentiments otherwise nameless, it said a lot about Michael’s patience for the world on those days when Luke had already managed to annoy him that early in the morning. Michael always opened up during the day, stumbling through his morning—afternoon—routine with his attention span at half-mast, never fully awake until it was time for Luke to go to sleep. He always felt like talking to Michael, though.

 

Well, always except for today.

 

“Hey, Luke? Lu-uke.” Michael said.

 

Luke looked up again, feeling the unease dislodge a bit when he found Michael looking back at him, now fully dressed. He floundered for a few seconds, then:

 

“You’re still dripping, Michael.”

 

“I’ll make _you_ drip.” Michael shot back, picking up the towel again and drying himself off properly.

 

And it was back. Luke chuckled miserably and patted the bed next to him. _(Yeah, great, invite him to sleep with you.)_

 

Michael threw the towel on the floor, lifted the covers, and slid under them, rubbing eyes as he did so. “I’m tired.”

 

“I know. C’mere.” _(You must like shooting yourself in the foot.)_

 

Michael nuzzled his way into Luke’s space, pressing his nose in Luke’s neck. Luke jerked a little, feeling a coldness that had nothing to do with Michael’s body temperature invade his blanket-cocoon. He brought his shoulders up a bit, shoving Michael over. _(I don’t wanna sleep with him if I can’t, you know,_ sleep _with him.)_ He must have used a little more force than he’d intended because instead of moving right back into his space like he did normally, Michael pulled back, head cocked in silent question, eyes searching Luke’s for permission to return. Heart pang.

 

Luke shifted under Michael’s gaze, pretending to get comfortable and then opening his arms slightly for Michael to crawl back into them. And he did, arms and legs suddenly all over Luke, elbows and knees prodding him as Michael tried to find his perfect spot. Finally, he settled, body molding to Luke’s, latched on with with a hand thrown around Luke’s waist. Michael kicked his lower half gently and Luke let his legs fall open so Michael could nestle in even further.

 

_(You’re so easy.)_

 

They were quiet for a moment.

 

“You forgot to turn the light off,” said Michael.

 

Luke groaned and got up on his forearms to lean over Michael to flick the switch on the lamp cord. They spent another five minutes shuffling their limbs about and then it was dark and it was quiet and Luke thought maybe he could breathe.

 

“Luke?” Michael whispered.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do you really think I’m annoying?”

 

“No.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

Pause. “Really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Michael slapped his stomach in the darkness.

 

Luke huffed. “No, of course I don’t think you’re annoying.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Luke shifted to get a better Luke at Michael’s face smudged into the side of his neck. “You’re being weird.”

 

Michael ignored him, frowned at being dislodged again. He patted Luke’s braced arm until it caved. Luke pressed his head back into the pillows, sighing. “What is it? What’s wrong, Mi—OW! What the fuck, Michael?”

 

Michael, who had been sucking on his neck, bridled his ministrations, shrank. Luke was afraid for a second that he’d gone and scared Michael into silence before he ever had the chance to say what was on his mind. But Michael, in all his clinginess, began stroking the space under Luke’s collarbone, over his shirt. It took him awhile to collect his thoughts, or to decide whether or not he was going to speak, whichever. Then Michael said: “I don’t know if… people…” Pause. “If people like me how I want them to.”

 

Luke waited.

 

“Like… I know people like me, ‘cuz we have a good time, and stuff. But like, some people don’t…” Michael trailed off.

 

Luke ached for him, felt big and protective over Michael, all curled up in his arms. “Well,” he said, not knowing as he was saying it how he would continue, “Not everyone’s gonna like you. I mean, you’re not going to get along with everyone you meet and we meet a lot of people every day.”

 

Michael rubbed his head on Luke’s shoulder, hair tickling Luke’s chin. “I meant people that I already know. I feel like we don’t really know each other. We spend so much time together, talking and stuff. Even when I go away. But if they really liked me then maybe we would talk about… other stuff?”

 

“Like what?” _(Like feelings?)_

 

“I don’t know,” Michael said stubbornly.

 

“I think I know what you mean,” Luke offered, decided to go for it. “But you’re awesome, you know that? Anyone would be glad to have you pay attention to them. I think, if you wanted to tell your friend something—if you were that good of friends, they’d be happy you told them.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

“Well, if they aren’t then maybe they aren’t right for you. The one that counts will be right there beside you when you need it.”

 

“Like you,” Michael said.

 

“Like me? Isn’t this about a girl?” Luke said slowly, trying futilely to slow his heartbeat before Michael noticed how it had picked up. His stomach wrung itself out like a nervous habit.

 

“Yeah. Girls.” Michael said the word carefully, like he was trying it on for size. “Or, I guess—”

 

“Or?”

 

“Yeah—and—yeah,  and girls.”

 

“You said that already.”

 

“Just—” he said frustratedly, gesturing around his as best he could given his horizontal position. “Girls!”

 

“Oh,” Luke said.

 

Luke stared up at the ceiling and felt numb. Michael was talking to a girl? Michael talked to a lot of girls, hit on most of them, too. If there was a specific girl, one that he wanted to _be with_ , it was news to him. He knew he was taking a shot in the dark, but that must be what it was. Someone Luke didn’t know, had maybe met at a party once, hit it off with without ever knowing it. She was probably lovely. Michael probably wanted to take it slow. He could understand that. What he didn’t understand, though, was why Michael hadn’t mentioned it to him earlier. They shared everything with each other. Sure, maybe for Michael it was too callow to air out all of his childhood insecurities, string them up, go on with his life knowing that those things are hanging between them. But girls? Michael fell in love every other week and Luke heard all about those, whether from Michael talking about it loudly at dinner or through Calum or Ashton. Come to think of it, it was always his best friends that Michael went to for girl troubles. Why didn’t Michael want to talk to him? Why didn’t Michael understand that Luke wanted to know everything about him, wanted it so much that sometimes he could barely breathe?

 

Luke checked himself suddenly. He was being ridiculous. Michael was just like every other person on the planet. Just because they were close didn’t mean Luke was entitled to hearing every thought in Michael’s head. He was a boy who deserved to have his own space without his best friend invading the last bit of privacy he had in this strange, strange reality they called a career. And Calum and Ashton? They deserved it, too. They all did. Maybe touring and being constantly out in the open was getting to him. He’d never had to deal with being jealous much, normally he just trusted his feelings and everything seemed to work out. But if he to, he’d say that in bed with your best friends was not a the best place to start.

 

“Luke?” Lu-uke.” Michael was saying, “Are you asleep?”

 

No, Luke wasn’t tired at all. He had too much on his mind and Michael’s breath, which came in hot, little puffs on his skin, were making it hard to think of things to say. “Mmmph.”

 

“I wanna say something. And you’re probably going to make fun of me for saying it, which, is fair enough, ‘cuz I would.” Michael took a deep breath. “It just that you’re my best friend in the whole wide world, you know that, right? I like you more than anyone I’ve ever met. So, yeah. Just wanted you to know that.”

 

Luke closed his eyes, swallowed. He felt like he was burning slowly. “Thanks, Mikey,” he said.

 

Michael yawned. His body wriggled as he did so. “I thought you were asleep.”

 

“Nope. Now I am.”

 

“O-kay. G’night, Lukey.” Michael slurred, “I love youuuu.”

 

Michael’s voice melted away sharply, chin slumping down just a bit, caught by the stolid lump of hotel pillows that had somehow ferreted themselves away to Michael’s side of the bed. Luke could hear his heart beating in the darkness, could see the beads of moisture on Michael’s forehead, and the strands of hair stuck about his temples. He watched Michael’s body give a little in his sleep, sagging into the bed, into Luke. It was some sort of reprieve, at least, that Michael was no longer watching him, moving around him, interacting with him, eyes scanning his. And for as long as they’d been co-dependent, sleepover-having, secret-sharing best friends, Luke had always harboured some sort of weird affection for Michael when he was asleep. He’d always felt wrong watching for the soft sigh that would sweep the tension out of Michael’s body, as his chest pumped with a new rhythm. But what did it matter really. That he was fascinated with the way Michael’s body curled of its own accord, like a cat’s. The way his mouth gaped open, the breath that escaped and was caught up each time and dried his lips. That he wanted to capture them in his own, put life into them, softly as to not wake the boy they belonged to. Wanted to see feel them between his teeth, lave them. Draw back see them reddening under swapped spit. Was that gross? He didn’t know. It certainly felt gross, but if it was with a girl…

 

Still, he shouldn’t be so fascinated. It shouldn’t be endearing—attractive—the way it was when Michael was at his most vulnerable. And he did mean attractive. He was being honest with himself, and he meant attractive. Michael was attractive.

 

And now he felt a bit like crying, feeling the itching behind his eyes that he hated so much. Luke didn’t know how he ended up like this. Really, he didn’t. Luke used to be so sure that he liked girls. He was even sure enough so as to think he could never kiss a boy, do things with a boy, get excited with a boy. When he thought about girls, he thought about pretty eyelashes, pillowy lips. Thought about how their hair smelled, liked it long, partitioned by the slope of their shoulders. How it fell sometimes between their breasts, where pendants hung when they wear necklaces. When he thought about boys, well, he’d never really thought about boys he didn’t know in real life, unless they were musicians or celebrities or something.  

 

He also thought, in the back of his mind, that Michael looked a bit like a girl. He had long dark eyelashes. He had puffy, pink lips as if he was wearing lipstick. Michael was soft. The smells of Chapstick and lotion (and admittedly, papadums) clung to him like flypaper. Luke remembered a time, the year before, when Michael had decided to experiment with eyeliner. He’d disappeared into the makeup room one day with Lou Teasdale, and emerged with a trace of black smudged around his eyes. That had been interesting day for Luke, realizing that Michael looked good in that sort of thing. But Michael wasn’t short, he wasn’t very curvy, and more than anything, his energy screamed _boy_. Michael was a boy in all the ways that really mattered.

 

Did that mean he was bisexual? He didn’t feel like he was. He felt like Michael had flipped some sort of switch in him. He didn’t want to be with boys any more than he did before, he just wanted to be with Michael.

 

Luke lifted a hand to card through Michael’s hair, stroked his thumb against his jaw and felt the slight growth there, allowed himself to wonder (what it would be like). He wanted to hold Michael’s hand and give him kisses with tongue and lovebites with teeth, wear his clothes like a brand. He wanted to press Michael into walls and stolen spaces _(let Michael do it, let Michael do anything)_ , stripping them both down after shows and falling into bed together. Then maybe this convergence of Luke and Michael into Luke-and-Michael that had been happening for years wouldn’t be so painful and confusing.

 

Yeah, Luke had wanted more with Michael since the moment he met him. There was only the question of what to do about it.

 

And the answer was—had to be—nothing. He couldn’t do that to Michael, couldn’t do that to the band. Luke had been lucky so as to have no baggage, only a few residual insecurities about his body, a certain reticence in the romance department. To be stunted even further, now that he’d gone and fallen in love with someone who would never look at him that way.

 

He tried to suck down the stupid catch in his throat and only succeeded in releasing the sob that had been building there since they’d lain down together. He couldn’t let this dumb crush change their friendship, had to suppress it. If that meant letting Michael do whatever he wanted where Luke himself held back, then that’s how it had to be from now on. The lines were getting blurred and here in the dark of a hotel room a million miles from familiarity, Luke was slowly forgetting how not to want him.

 

(We’re best friends. Isn’t it funny that we used to hate each other?)

 

_(I’m in love with him. I always have been.)_

  
_(Michael Clifford, what have you done to me?)_


End file.
